Wheeling Gull Isle Don't tell me what you think that I can be

In the haze of her hunger, she was not sure if she recognized the wolf that approached. Her addled mind offered her a few names that might fit - Skellige, Riverbone? - but the little shewolf settled on another soft cry.

She remained where she was, unwilling to stand, folded into the grass like a fawn awaiting its mother's return. But it was not a loving dam that approached her - it was something else entirely.

An uncertain stutter of sound escaped the russet female. Should she call for help? Had she called already? Was this the one she'd asked for? Everything seemed to move too slowly, and then too quickly. Nothing made sense. Disheartened, she tucked her nose back under the tip of her tail and tried to ignore the dark wolf's presence.